Dear Scientists:

Congratulations on the great work. Next time around, though, could you maybe build a robot that doesn't look like it was beaten with a belt by her daddy?

Sincerely,
RomanHans

First step on the path to Queendom? DON'T TELL ANYBODY YOU'RE A LESBIAN.

Are You Straight or Gay?

Sure, you've probably already made up your mind, but does your body go along with that decision? See which of these slabs of hot chest flesh gets your mojo working. Is it Jason Segel, who courted gorgeous Kristin Bell in Forgetting Sarah Marshall last year, or is it Betty White, who lost a husband in the Civil War?

Let your genitals speak for themselves: quien es mas caliente?










ANSWERS:

(A) is Betty; (B) is Jason.

A lot of people make fun of hipsters, and it's time for me to take a stand. I like hipsters, if only for one reason: they don't wear cargo shorts. When every other male in the universe is wearing these virtual duffel bags with waistbands, hipsters are wearing actual shorts. You know, like regular pants, except cut off above the knee. With, like, two regular pockets where the pockets should be. They look dapper, they look cool, and -- since society took that weird swerve a couple years ago where, for six months out of the year, every male had to don shorts with seventeen built-in cupholders -- they look most decidedly retro.

To cargo shorts fans, I have one thing to say: look at yourself in a mirror. Do you really think they're flattering? It's as if a woman emptied out her handbag and attached the contents at various locations down her legs. A cellphone on her hip, a bottle of water on her thigh, a copy of The Fountainhead at her crotch. They make me assume negative things about you. They were created for soldiers, for use in battle. Those little pockets are for grenades and sniper scopes and stuff. In that context, then, you seem a little trivial when you wear them to the mall stuffed with emergency bags of Funyums.

In fact, I've drawn a line in the sand. Should I ever meet an attractive man in cargo shorts, I'm going to write him off. I'm not even giving him the time of day. Because maybe he's creative and thoughtful and intelligent, despite his wardrobe, but I don't think any relationship should start with the line, "Are those lumps in your pants your belongings, or are they you?"

Jason Segel, star of Forgetting Sarah Marshall and a voice in Despicable Me, legally married a heterosexual couple on television last week. He prefaced the ceremony with the allegedly cute little story of how the whole thing came about. This couple, he said, wanted to get married, and they were huge fans of his. They posted signs asking him to marry them on streetlights and telephone poles all around his neighborhood: from his house, in fact, all the way to his favorite bar.

Which spooked him, he admitted, because it's kind of a stalkery thing to do. And then one night he went to the bar, and there they were! But it turned out they were really, really nice, so he said yes. He became a minister with the Universal Life Church, and the ceremony took place on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno last week.

While Mr. Segel may be an ordained minister, the observant viewer definitely questioned his commitment to the truth. The story sounded preposterous, starting with the idea that somebody thought one of the frat-boy actors in the Apatow stables would be the perfect officiant to recite their holy vows -- I mean, if you're gonna dream big, you'd go for Adam Sandler, right? -- to the part where they hung around a bar until he showed up.

Shooting the whole thing to hell, though, was Mr. Segel's declaration a few days later that he found the couple through Craigslist. He didn't say who posted the ad.

Now, a lot of people here are going to say, "Whoa, what a freakin' liar!" Me, I'll cut the guy some slack. I can sympathize.

I know how difficult it is to come up with a story that'll make people think, "Uh, is he trying to be funny or what?"

The New York Times addresses the difficult questions that children ask their parents.

How much money do you make? As with any financial question, your first response ought to be, "What made you think of that?"

Your children may not be looking for a number, especially if they're young and have no context for five- or six-digit figures. They may just be worried about running out of money or wondering why you don't live in a mansion. . . .

[The problem with disclosure] is that many younger children will immediately tell someone (or everyone). And the automatic social reflex is often a flash of shame among people who hear the number and make less, Mr. Kessel noted, or arrogance among those who make more. Who truly wants to put others in either situation?

If older children persist with their questioning, try instead to use this as a lesson in budgeting.

I'll give similar advice to all you kids out there. When your parents ask to see your report card, you need to say, "What's it to you?" See, they probably don't know what they're saying. They're probably just confused. Maybe they just want to know that you aren't ditching every day.

The problem is, if you've done really well, they're going to call up all your relatives. And how will that make you feel when Uncle Butch hears you got an A in some punk-ass crap like Civics? He's gonna think you're a wuss. So, instead of answering your parents directly, satisfy their curiosity by saying, "Don't worry, dudes, I ain't on crack."

Realizing he wasn't exactly dressed right to meet the mayor of London at Gay Pride 2010, Stuart ran back to his car and put his best flip flops on.

San Francisco artist Chris Trueman created a portrait of his younger brother -- from 200,000 dead ants. At one point he halted the project as he felt bad about killing so many, but then he decided to carry on or the first ants would have died in vain.


At first this pissed me off, but then I realized I've probably killed 200,000 ants in my lifetime. You figure 2,000 ant farms, . . .

A Portland, Oregon chef who advocates sustainable, locally grown food attacked a man over a meal that came from out of state.

After losing an exclusive culinary contest, chef Eric Bechard completely freaked out when he learned the winning chef had brought a pig all the way from Ohio. He slugged the event's organizer, prompting the police to come with Tasers and pepper spray.

Oh, puh-leaze. You can't import foreign meat for competitions? He'll be shutting down Miss Universe next.

Ashley Judd angered coal supporters a few weeks ago when she called mountain top removal “the rape of Appalachia.” In retaliation, coal supporters used a semi-nude photo of the actress to attack her stand on mountain top removal mining.


Well, here's a good reason: When Judd takes her top off, all the local wildlife don't fall over dead.

Gay refugees have a right to asylum in Britain, a high court has ruled. The decision will stop those fearing imprisonment, torture or execution from being shipped back to their home countries.

Supreme Court judge Lord Rodger said gay people’s right to live freely must be protected. “Just as male heterosexuals are free to enjoy themselves playing rugby, drinking beer and talking about girls with their mates," he said, "so male homosexuals are to be free to enjoy themselves going to Kylie concerts, drinking exotically-coloured cocktails and talking about boys with their straight female mates.”

"Yeah, I totally love Kylie," said a gay man who was hanged in Iraq.

I hear that new Jonah Hill-John C. Reilly movie is doing good. Me, I'm not interested. If I wanted to see a creepy kid named Cyrus, I'd be a Hannah Montana fan.

Dentists in Taiwan have noticed an odd epidemic recently. In the past few months, they said, dozens of men have had to be treated for jaw-related injuries. They reported extremely sore jaws, and some even had difficulties opening their mouths.

Hsu Ming-lun, associate professor of the School of Dentistry of National Yang-Ming University, said the men blamed extra-large hamburgers for the problem.

What? Oh. I, um, asked for pubic hair instead of fries.

From an eighth-grade Space and Earth Science text for homeschoolers:

The difference between the believing scientist and the unbelieving scientist is not that the believer has presuppositions and the unbeliever does not. The difference is what presupposition each is building his life and thinking on. The believer rests everything on the reliability of the Bible. The unbeliever rests everything on himself -- his use of scientific methodology and his power of reason.

Got that? "Sure, I believe in God, but you believe in logic and reason!" That'll sure shut up your college science professor.

Chicks in Christian homeschooling textbooks sure buy a lot of mirrors.

Well, thank God. I was afraid they were diverting some of the funds to help those annoying harelip kids.

A Japanese court on Wednesday convicted anti-whaling activist Peter Bethune of assault and obstructing Japanese whaling ships, but his prison sentence was suspended.

The charge of assault was for throwing bottles of rancid butter at a whaling ship.

One terrified whaler said, "We thought we were toast."

There is no such thing as a religious scientist.

One of the fundamentals of science is Occam's Razor. It says that when there are many possible solutions to a problem, the one that adds the fewest new questions is probably correct.

This principle, unfortunately, pretty much means you can't believe in God.

See, we're looking for an answer to "Where did everything come from?" When we answer "God," though, we're adding a hell of a lot of new questions, including ones that are worse than the original. Including "How does this dude live forever?", "Where did he come from?", and, of course, "If there's an intelligent force behind the universe, how can pigeons exist?

Before grasping that theist belief system, then, the card-carrying scientist will research more plausible ones. Like maybe walruses created everything. Sure, they don't seem smart enough to create a platter of tasty brownies, but at least they're not invisible, and we know they exist. Or, Martha Stewart made everything. Now we have to deal with the question of how she's been around since the beginning of time, but hey, if anybody's actually capable of crafting on the atomic level, she's the one. I'm pretty sure she's got a microscopic hot-glue gun.

The only answer less plausible than God? Two invisible old men created everything.

But at least one employer has been outspoken [against President Obama's changes to federal guidelines governing the employment of unpaid interns]. John Stossel, a former anchor on ABC’s “20/20” who now hosts his own show on the Fox Business Network, has been sounding off about the issue all over print, the airwaves and cyberspace. He even donned a police uniform for an appearance on the Fox News program “America Live” to ridicule the crackdown.

“I’ve built my career on unpaid interns,” he said in the interview, “and the interns told me it was great — I learned more from you than I did in college.” (Asked why he didn’t pay them if they were so valuable, he said he didn’t have the money.)

A guy who worked 28 years at ABC, author of two best-selling books, winner of nineteen Emmy awards, now with his own show on Fox, can't afford to pay people who have no income.

If dude ever writes a sequel to Myths, Lies and Downright Stupidity, he needs to write a chapter about himself.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary:

I spent most of this morning on a pile of dog poop. It was okay. Didn't see anybody I knew. Then I zipped downwind and found this big heap of tangled brown rope. I was having fun just kinda jumping around until some idiot said, "Eww, there's a fly in your hair," and then there were, like, eighty hands, all swatting at me. I ducked out through the back way.

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

Ohmigod, it happened again. It was unbelievable. I'm chilling in this cool, shady place, when I decide to hit the road. I fly toward the light, doing maybe twenty, and all of a sudden I slam head-first into something! It just about dislodges my tiny brain, and I think to myself, WTF? I back up a little and give it another try, and I slam into the fucker again. I swear to God: I can see everything outside, just inches away, but for some bizarre reason I just can't get there. There's like this weird, invisible shield stretched across it.

I musta circled it like a hundred times and couldn't find any way through it. Exhausted now. Will investigate further tomorrow.

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

HALLELUJAH! So, I spend like eight hours banging my head against nothing, and finally I give up. I retreat. I'm flying the other way when I spot this big, sweaty thing lumbering around. It doesn't smell particularly tasty, but it's been a while since I ate. I ain't choosy. I land on it and give it a lick. It's a little clammy, but that don't bother me. Hell, I spent most of 2008 on Abe Vigoda.

So I'm just kinda sitting there when this bright light comes on, and I feel a rush of cool air. Mm, I think. I wanna get me some of that. I fly toward it, getting brighter and cooler with every flap, and finally when I'm in the thick of it I discover something:

THE WHOLE THING IS FULL OF FOOD!

Holy SHIT! I think to myself. This is INSANE! You know, I've heard some pretty crazy stories in my life. Like, my grandpa used to tell us about the time he flew into this little metal room where he just sat around for a couple hours, but when he finally flew out he was TWO HUNDRED MILES AWAY. Took him three weeks to get back home. Needless to say, Grandma was furious. She was sure he shacked up with some tsetse. Still, grandpa NEVER talked about NOTHING like this. It's heaven. Everywhere I look there's another delicacy. It's like a kennel, except everything is cold.

Man, you never seen me so happy. I was moving like I was being swatted by freakin' ninjas. I spot some takeout Chinese and I figure I'll start with that, but the second I land on the box the whole place goes black. I'm thinking, WTF? Still, you know, the darkness ain't stopping me. I swear to God, I musta ate an entire grain of fried rice. Next, I flit over to a plate of fried chicken, and I swear I sat there eight hours. It was tarsus-licking good. Then I stuck my proboscis into a fine little porterhouse. Reminded me of the weekend I spent on Bobby Flay.

Needless to say, Diary, today was one of the best days ever. Yeah, I'm starting to feel a little cold, but it's probably 'cuz all the blood is rushing to my stomach.

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

Some time over the past couple hours I admitted to myself that something was wrong. Sure, the food here is amazing, and I know most flies would kill to be in here. But in between eating I've been looking around, and I'm not sure I can find my way out. It's really dark, and really cold. Every once in a while the lights come on, but before I can get my wings moving everything goes black again.

Hey, I'm probably worrying about nothing. Everything's gonna be okay. I spent last night sleeping on a whole stick of butter, so how bad can it be?

Your pal, Marv

Dear Diary:

All hope is lost. I can find no escape from this place. I'm surrounded by platters of kiwis and pineapples and cantaloupe, but leaving here is fruitless. Yeah, I made a joke, but I'm way too cold to laugh.

I buzz and buzz but no one hears me. I'm now lying on, I believe, some rice pudding. I thought the color contrast would help in case I'm sleeping when that rescue party finally arrives.

Please, somebody hear me. And soon.

Your pal, Marv

P. S. There's couscous!

Dear Diary:

The light came on a couple minutes ago. You know the pudding I'm laying on? It's chocolate.

Love to my maggots.

Your pal, Marv